


In My Restless Dreams

by catsmiaow



Category: Sherlock (TV), Silent Hill (Video Game Series)
Genre: Horror, M/M, Psychological Horror
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2019-10-09 17:06:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17410844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catsmiaow/pseuds/catsmiaow
Summary: It all began with a series of text messages and led to that town: Silent Hill.





	1. The Evidence Collected

One Month Ago

_(via text message at eight am while Sherlock was at a crime scene):_

**Gone to visit friend. His wife died. Be back in a week.**   
**JW**

**Who is this friend I've never heard of?**   
**SH**

**His name is James Sunderland, and you can survive a week.**   
**JW**

**I didn't say I couldn't. I'll go with you.**   
**SH**

**No, you're not. His wife just died, and he doesn't need you poking about.**   
**JW**

**Was it murder?**   
**SH**

**I'd like to think you weren't jumping up and down at the idea.**   
**JW**

**Was it?**   
**SH**

**No. She was sick a long time.**   
**JW**

**Oh.**   
**SH**

**I'll bring you back a souvenir from Silent Hill.**   
**JW**

**Is that in America? John, what are doing?**   
**SH**

**Got to turn off the mobile. Boarding now.**   
**JW**

_A video clip is included of John Watson disembarking and being greeted by a pale man with blond hair in a green jacket. They embrace like old friends who haven't seen each other in a long time before they walk out of frame._

\-----------------

Two Weeks Ago

_(via text message at 2:13 am):_

**Lestrade?**   
**JW**

**John? Where the fuck are you? Sherlock is going insane! Two weeks and no calls?**   
**GL**

**I need you to come. Here.**   
**JW**

**Where? What's going on?**   
**GL**

**No questions. Will you come? Now?**   
**JW**

**Let me give Mycroft a call first.**   
**GL**

**No. You can't tell anyone. I'll explain why when you get here. I promise.**   
**JW**

**What about Sherlock? He needs to know.**   
**GL**

**No. Please. I'll explain it all once you're here.**   
**JW**

**I can't do that. I can't leave Mycroft in the middle of the night with nothing.**   
**GL**

**John?**   
**GL**

**John?!**   
**GL**

_Included is an official report from the cellular provider confirming the originating source as the mobile of John Watson, MD, although a location could not be traced._

\--------------------------

One Week Ago

_(via text message received at 2:13 am):_

**Lestrade.**   
**JW**

**John? Where are you?**   
**GL**

**The London Dungeon. Help me. Oh god, help me, Greg.**   
**JW**

**I'm on my way. Just stay where you are.**   
**GL**

**John?**   
**GL**

_Video surveillance, minus audio, follows of Gregory Lestrade and a few of his fellows walking through the doors of the waxwork. The light switches are flipped, but the place remains dark. Torches are used as they wind their way through the exhibits and tracks to search the place. The eagle's eye video camera follows Lestrade's progress. In a dark room, he faces away from the camera, the torch's beam illuminating the Jack the Ripper display. A darker shape can be seen behind him a split-second before he is grabbed and the torch tumbles to the floor, playing hell with a viewer's picture of the scene as it spins away. The feed ends there. An official report follows on the disappearance of Detective Inspector Gregory Randall Lestrade. His torch was later found in the Jack the Ripper waxwork with a note in Dr John Watson's handwriting that reads:_

**In my restless dreams, I see that town.**

\-----------------------

Yesterday

_The video recording is complete with audio. Mycroft Holmes sits at his desk, reports spread out before him. Close-up on the minute writing reveals the repeated name of DI Lestrade. The wireless on the edge of his desk crackles to life._

“Mycroft? Mycroft? I can't find you. Where are you? You promised.”

_The voice is that of the vanished DI Lestrade (see attached reports from Donovan, Sally and Anderson, Jonathan verifying the speaker as DI Lestrade) issues from the wireless._

Mycroft Holmes glances over his shoulder before laying a hand on it. “Greg?”

Static jams the frequency, blurring some of the words, “..croft? I'm... ere. Please, Mycr.. Silent... ill. I can't g... Mycroft? Where are... ? You promised! We can't get ou... Sherlock... bring, Sher... Myc...? Help us...”

Mycroft Holmes picks up the wireless, turning the dial slowly as if that would help the broadcast. There's a sudden shriek of static and metal on metal with what could be a human screaming before it goes dead. He rises from his desk and begins dialing. 

_A close-up view and cross-checking with the directory confirms this is his brother's number. The recording ends here._

All official collected evidence of the strange disappearance of the Holmes brothers, Doctor John Watson and Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade ends here. The rest is only conjecture pieced together from the few surviving documents, audio or video records.


	2. I'm Alone There Now

"Silent Hill, Maine,” Sherlock said, the word falling dead from his lips. He didn't like the way it sounded in his head.

"That is where John Watson vanished according to what he told you, and it sounded like what Greg was trying to tell me,” Mycroft answered, gripping his umbrella between his hands as he gazed out the window instead of at his brother. Anthea steered the car through the gradually more blocked road. It looked as if a storm had torn through lately, leaving downed branches and rutted or washed out roads behind. When they had followed the twisting country road to this place, it had been two lanes. Now it was barely one. Welcome to America's road system. "I also spoke to a Frank Sunderland, the father of this James Sunderland that John had gone to visit. The father is some sort of on-site superintenant in an apartment building in Ashfield near Silent Hill.”

"And?”

"And James Sunderland's wife didn't die a few days ago. She died three years ago, although even James' father is unsure of this. He said they went to Silent Hill, but he was lying according to the interrogator. More _aggressive_ questioning led to him stating that he thought Mary was dead and James going to there be where she was happiest.” There was no need to check his notes. Having read it once, Mycroft had committed it to memory. "Mary Shepherd-Sunderland. Most of that illness had been spent in Saint Jermone's Hospital in Ashfield until close to the end. According to reports, her husband barely visited, and when he did, the staff reported that they could smell stale alcohol on him. She grew sicker and angier, he grew more distant due to either being unable to deal with her dying or her unpredictable mood swings that left her lashing out at him. There are at least ten reports of her screaming at him, accusing him of everything imaginable, especially as she grew more depressed and suicidal."

Sherlock's head turned, studying his brother critically. This new input left more options than it eliminated. Why would John have lied? Or had John been lied to? The latter seemed more feasible. While John wasn't incapable of lying, there had been no reason for him to do so in this situation. "She died three years ago, but her former husband calls John and tells him she passed recently. You said 'until close to the end'. What changed?”

"The hospital discharged her in her final days to die at home per her request. Supposedly to be close to her husband despite the relationship she had formed with some orphan she toyed with adopting on her better days. That said, while Sunderland the Father said she was dead, there is no record of Mary Sunderland's death. No death certificate, no autopsy, no... nothing. _America_. Sloppy."

Sherlock opened his mouth to ask to see the paperwork himself only to find Mycroft holding out a thin file to him. Reading it took only a few minutes. Even Anderson would have caught onto police work this sloppy. After Mary was sent home, all records of her stopped. No hospice nurse, no further doctor appointments. Funeral records had been searched with none found for Mary. And James Sunderland himself vanished. All three years ago. "Perhaps he killed her out of pity and then ran. Body in a shallow grave or taken to Silent Hill to be buried. By why three years?"

Mycroft braced himself as the auto took a hard thump over a hole in the road. Something shrieked in metallic pain from beneath the car. "And why Gregory? Why take him?”

"To bring us here," Sherlock replied without fanfare. It was the most logical reason. Those words left both of them to their thoughts.

The woods were closing in tighter around them until they could hear the whispery scrape of limbs against the car's windows and door. Finally, the road opened out into a car park of sorts. ' _Toluca Lake Observation Deck_ ' according to the rusted out sign hanging askew on the post. Wasn't much to see if a low mist creeping over the lake. A few autos were already there. Sherlock's analytical mind raked over them, reporting back that it looked as if they had all been sitting there for some time. All had a dusting of dust or dirt on them, paint in various stages of being faded by the sun or weather. That led to a single conclusion: This is not normal. Where were the tow trucks that would have hauled such away or staff to have reported them? Where was anyone for that matter? The ground didn't look disturbed and the restroom door of the observation deck hung open at an odd angle. Shouldn't someone have fixed that by now?

Nothing more was said between them until the car stopped. The privacy barrier between them and the driver slid down. Anthea shook her head as she turned to the brothers. "The road ends here. The other way was blocked by a downed tree. We can walk or call for help.”

"We walk,” Sherlock snapped.

"We should look around first.” Mycroft was not to be denied as he stepped out of the car. This, of course, would usually translate to Sherlock or Anthea looking around, not him. Mycroft himself would have sat in the car and sent a few text messages, stopped a few wars and perhaps started one. The economy could use a boost. Instead, he slammed the door behind him and began examining the nearby cars.

A roll of his eyes and Sherlock started opening doors on the other vehicles, sorting through the contents. The few locked ones failed to arouse his interest beyond a needle of annoyance that precious seconds were being wasted getting past substandard security. His interest was immediately lost when there was no sign of John within. John had to be here, had to come this way. It was the only lead they had. The blue car still had a door open, the engine long dead with the fuel gauge sitting at empty. He crawled in, flipping open the dash and sorting through the papers. Near the bottom, he found what he wanted among the discarded car trash.

John's mobile laid there as if it had never had an owner, alone and abandoned. Holding it in his hands, Sherlock forced himself to ease up before he cracked it. This was John's, had laid in his hands and felt his fingers move across it. John had used it hundreds of times to answer his texts, phone for help and... it had been John's. It _was_ John's. 

Alongside it was another.

"Did you find something?”

Ignoring his arch nemesis, Sherlock opened it up and began searching over last calls and messages. They were to the airlines and Sherlock himself. Nothing more. "You said it had been confirmed by the cellular provider that John had been the one who sent those texts to Lestrade.”

Mycroft nodded, studying the phone in Sherlock's hands. "It was, yes.”

"They aren't on here.” The 'sent' folder showed only the messages that had been gone off to Sherlock, the ones where John had said he was getting ready to fly out. "There's also this.”

The second mobile was snatched from Sherlock's hands, Mycroft's face flushing a dull shade of white as he put in the unlock code. Greg's welcome screen came up, dull shades of silver and blue mocking him. _Reminds me of you, Myc, since you won't let me keep a picture of you on my mobile. Same shade as your eyes._

"Well?” Sherlock asked.

"Nothing. There's no messages from your Doctor Watson. There's a few from me, you and his fellow workers, but that's it.”

The brothers stood there, surveying the stark landscape with the useless cellphones held or dropped into a pocket. 

"There should have been rodents nesting in those cars if not something larger," Sherlock said quietly.

"The interiors are faded and cracked, leaves and paper from long enough for a year or two to have passed for some of them. That truck over there has decayed tires. Takes awhile for rubber to break down that badly. I haven't heard any birds singing either."

They weren't speaking when Anthea met back up with them fifteen minutes later. Neither looked surprised when she told them that the main road was blocked but she had found a way into Silent Hill through a graveyard or so the map she found said. Their eyes were fixed on her as she gave her report, but a long service with Mycroft told her that this was cursory. The brothers were caught up in their minds, maybe in that shared level of brilliance only they could reach. She was only a poor actor strutting and fretting across their stage that would be soon heard from no more. The very idea set a cold slither up her spine. 

"I want you to go back, Anthea," Mycroft began, having the good grace to raise a hand to stop her protests before they could start. "Go back and get my security detail. Bring them here and into Silent Hill. We'll be waiting for you there. Sherlock and I will find Gregory and Doctor Watson."

"Sir-"

"That's an order, my dear."

It felt to her like the last one he would ever give to her. She would have stood by his side, died for him if needed. It was her job. But looking at his face and Sherlock's, she knew with every predator's instinct that she had that he was going somewhere she couldn't follow. That maybe no one could but Sherlock. Protests and promises she wanted to wring from him died in her throat. Instead, she held her head high and gave him a small nod. "Yes, sir."

The last Anthea saw of them was Mycroft and Sherlock heading down the stairs towards the graveyard the map said laid ahead.

It was the last time anyone ever saw Mycroft or Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
